


SAFE HARBOUR

by Wolfiekins



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anal Sex, Angst, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Male Slash, Minor Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-04
Updated: 2015-01-04
Packaged: 2018-03-05 10:43:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 15,774
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3117164
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wolfiekins/pseuds/Wolfiekins
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ron's a field operative for The Order based in Scotland, and after two years of battling Death Eaters, Inferi, and the weather, he faces his greatest challenge yet: Draco Malfoy.  Post Hogwarts, AU War!Fic.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> DISCLAIMER: All recognizable HP characters and settings belong to JKR, Warner Brothers, Scholastic, etc, etc. I own none of it, nada. No monies made nor offence intended.
> 
> The character of Jon MacLeod belongs completely and entirely to [](http://thrihyrne.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://thrihyrne.livejournal.com/)**thrihyrne** , and he’s borrowed from her frelling fantastic CARTOGRAPHY OF FIRE SERIES. Jon appears here briefly, with her kind permission. Also, one of Ron’s favourite magazines, Quagmire’s Quidditch Quarterly, as well as the concept of magical ambric energies, are also Thev’s creations.
> 
> This story is set in Scotland. I did a fair amount of research, but I’m sure I’ve gotten more than a few details wrong. Inverness, Aviemore, Tain, Torridon, and the villages of Gairloch are very real places in the Scottish Highlands. Also, the brief history of the fort of An Dun is completely factual and quoted from the Gairloch website. Torridon and Gairloch are absolutely beautiful, and I highly recommend visiting the appropriate websites:  
>  _  
> <http://www.torridon.org>  
> _  
>  __  
> <http://www.gairloch.co.uk>

**__**

 

**_Friday, 7 April, 2000_ **

 

Ron Weasley shifted about on his bedroll, casting yet another warming charm on his damp and holey socks. He’d thought that his years at Hogwarts had prepared him for the harshness of the changeable Scottish weather. It was one thing to be snug and cozy next to their woodstove in Gryffindor Tower; quite another to be out in the middle of nowhere without so much as a campfire. But they couldn’t chance a fire, not now. Not only was it against Order regulations, it was an open invitation for any Death Eaters to creep out of the trees and annihilate them in their sleep. That still happened, though, with alarming regularity.

He sipped at his canteen, the cheap whiskey burning his throat but nicely warming his chest.

“What I wouldn’t give for a bottle of Oban about now,” Jon MacLeod said as he pushed through the flaps and into the tent. He hastily dried his cloak and sat down next to Ron, reaching for the flask. “But this’ll do the trick, I expect.”

Ron nodded as Jon took a deep swallow of alcohol. “Works for me, mate.” He’d been paired with the Scot for nearly five months now, quite a long time, considering. Jon was instantly likeable, open, warm, always quick with a witty remark or insightful comment. He was also a bloody good tracker, and his knowledge of the surrounding terrain was invaluable. Ron knew his partner had grown up somewhere near Aviemore, his mother had been a Muggle, and that he hadn’t any siblings. Other than that, Jon rarely spoke about himself, preferring to focus on whatever their mission was at the moment.

Jon took another swallow of whiskey and scooted closer to Ron. “Colder than a banshee’s teat out there,” he rumbled, handing the flask back over. “Looks to be clearing up, though. And we’ve got the whole hollow to ourselves, too. No Death Eaters to be found.”

“That‘s good,” Ron replied, unconsciously pressing his shoulder to Jon’s. “Might actually get some sleep tonight, then.”

Jon pressed closer, lifting the threadbare blanket. “Let me in there, Ronnie, that’s a good lad.” He smiled crookedly, throwing it over his legs and taking the flask once more. “And I was hoping you’d be up for a bit longer, truth be told.” He drank deeply, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. His pale, grey-blue eyes shone in the meager light of their shielded lantern. He pressed closer, one hand gently caressing Ron’s inner thigh.

Ron took a deep breath and leaned his head against Jon’s. He’d always known deep down that he fancied blokes, and while he’d had a few nervous, furtive encounters in the showers or darkened corridors at school, nothing much had ever come of them. He’d just become comfortable with the idea of being a shirt lifter when the War broke out, casting everything into disarray. He’d discovered that Jon was of a similar bent rather early on, and although they’d only snogged and shared the same bedroll so far, Ron could easily see their relationship becoming far more intimate. It wasn’t love as much as it was a deep reliance and need for another person. The Order’s decision to use small two and three person splinter cells had been designed to cultivate just such camaraderie amongst operatives, although Ron was certain that they hadn’t envisioned his and Jon’s particular take on the policy.

He leaned back against his rucksack, one arm behind his head. “C’mon, then,” he murmured, patting the bedroll. “We’ve got to make the outskirts of Tain by dawn, so best we get some sleep, yeah?”

Jon nodded as he shrugged out of his hoodie, leaning back and on his side, throwing an arm across Ron’s chest. “Too right, that.” He murmured a warming charm and pulled the blanket up to their chests, nuzzling Ron’s neck. “Merlin, you’re always so warm,” he sighed, slowly moving one leg on top of Ron’s thigh and interlacing the fingers of one hand with Ron’s.

“You too, mate,” Ron replied as he set an alarm ward and charmed down the lantern. “Dawn comes too bloody quickly.” He hugged Jon tighter, feeling far more comfortable and content than he had any rights to. Jon’s sandy brown hair smelled of damp and musk and loam and everything earthy; the light breeze stirred the bare branches of the encroaching trees and gently rippled the canvas of their tent. He drifted off quickly, as was his fashion, at once dreaming of Quidditch, The Burrow, and his mum’s blackberry muffins…

Ron felt cold, the chill air instantly penetrating his sweatshirt. He blinked his eyes open, just able to make out Jon’s silhouette in the gloom. His partner was sitting up, his arm outstretched, wand aimed at the tent flaps. “Jon,” Ron whispered.

Jon merely put out his other hand out, touching Ron’s face. “Hush,” he hissed softly.

Ron sat up and fumbled for his wand as the telltale sounds of footfalls on wet grass finally reached his ears. By the time he found it, Jon was standing and ready to cast. Ron joined him, eyes fully adjusted to the dark and wand at the ready.

“The usual?” he asked, whispering into Jon’s ear.

Jon nodded. “Bang on.”

The footsteps grew louder, and it quickly became apparent that whomever was approaching was clearly unconcerned with stealth.

“Sounds like a bloody drunken hippogriff out there,” Jon whispered.

Before Ron could reply, the interloper’s voice wafted in to them.

“The weather in Surrey can be rather dodgy.”

“Shite,” Ron breathed, nodding at Jon. “It’s one of us.”

“Mayhap, Ronnie, mayhap. Only one way to find out.” Jon moved to the entrance of the tent. “But the skies in Plymouth are bright and clear.”

There was a pause and then the response: “And they stay that way all through the year.”

“That’s it, right?” Ron said, his free hand squeezing Jon’s shoulder.

“Close enough,” Jon replied as he dropped the wards. “Whomever makes up those bloody codes should be strung up by their bollocks, though.” The pair cautiously emerged from the tent and into the small clearing.

A cloaked figure stood a few yards from them, hood up and arms outstretched. “I’d appreciate it if you’d lower your wands. I’ve given the proper signs.”

Jon spared Ron a quick glance before advancing on the stranger. “Let’s see the arm, then.”

The new arrival sighed loudly, pulling up a sleeve and holding out his left forearm.

Jon waved his wand just above the skin. _“Ingenium Aperio,”_ he incanted. A moment later, an intricate, hidden tattoo glowed orange for a few seconds and then faded. Jon nodded as Ron moved beside him. “Can’t be too careful,” he offered.

“I agree,” the shadow replied. “This is for you, MacLeod. Straight from The Order.”

Ron watched as Jon took the proffered roll of parchment and eyed it with trepidation. “Fine. Well then, seems as you’ve the advantage.”

The cloaked figure snorted and dropped his hood. “Malfoy. Draco Malfoy.” He smirked at Ron. “Long time, Weasley.”

 

**_Friday, 21 April, 2000_ **

 

Ron downed his second bottle of Harp, sliding the empty bottle across the splintered table top. He glowered about the dingy little pub for what seemed like the hundredth time in an hour. He and Draco had been lurking about the outskirts of Tain for the last two weeks, tracking down a trio of Death Eaters. The trail had led them to this pub, the Lusty Lass, where a local squib had promised them vital information.

So here they were, with Draco off plying their contact while Ron was left to keep an eye on the pub. Most often these expeditions turned up little of use, but it was impossible, of course, to know the outcome beforehand. He wondered if Trelawney had been pressed into service; the image of his Divination professor wandering about the country side, glasses askew and muttering to herself brought a smile to his face.

“Never last half a day,” he said to himself bemusedly, swallowing more of his beer and scanning the pub once more. A handful of locals were scattered about the place, a fair crowd for a weekday. He’d studied every patron carefully, finally concluding that they all appeared to be relatively innocuous.

Just then, Draco emerged from the back room of the pub, his arm about the squib’s shoulders.

“Bloody show off,” Ron muttered as he signaled the barmaid for another beer.

The last two weeks had been nightmarish. Jon had been ordered to Glasgow for reassignment, leaving less than an hour after Draco had arrived. To make matters worse, the Slytherin was now officially his new partner, and permanently. Well, as permanent as such things were, which meant that he was stuck with Draco for the foreseeable future.

And Draco was a royal pain in the arse. He hadn’t changed one iota from what Ron remembered of him during their Hogwarts years. Condescending, hyper-critical and never at a loss for a sarcastic comment, he complained incessantly about Ron’s snoring and was never satisfied with anything. He was pompous, arrogant and just as self-involved as ever.

Aside from that, everything was grand.

Consequently, Ron found that he missed his former partner terribly. Their not entirely appropriate affections for each other notwithstanding, Jon was simply good company and a solid bloke. He’d had a way of making Ron forget that they were smack in the middle of a deadly conflict. While nearly all of his family and friends were also flung to the far corners of Britain due to the War, Jon’s absence affected Ron more keenly than he’d imagined.

News tended to trickle in sporadically from time to time, with fellow Order members relaying precious tidbits of information when their paths crossed. He’d heard that Harry and Snape were partners and doing well; Pansy Parkinson had delivered their latest orders a few days ago, and she’d heard from Terry Boot that George was healthy and now paired with Jon, of all people.

Draco laughed heartily from across the pub as Madam Aria plunked down Ron’s fresh beer. Ron flicked her his last two sickles and the buxom barmaid flashed him a half-friendly smile in response.

He glanced at Draco and the squib, who were now ensconced at the bar, foreheads nearly touching, lost in conversation. What in Hell’s Harpies could they possibly be talking about? He’d rarely seen such meetings take longer than a handful of minutes, but they’d been in The Lustful Lass for nearly two hours with no apparent end in sight. Not that Ron minded; it wasn’t often that they’d have an opportunity to venture into the nearest town or village.

He was downing his third beer and mulling over the possibility of slipping out to the inn across the street for a hot shower when the front door of the pub banged open. Three hooded figures slowly walked inside, fanning out until they stood shoulder to shoulder. Ron stood up, holding his beer in one hand while fingering his wand with the other. He walked toward Draco as casually as he could, his heart thudding in his chest.

They’d lingered far too long, and now they’d pay the price.

Ron noted that Draco hadn’t noticed the new arrivals. He guzzled the remainder of his Harp, slamming the empty bottle on the bar and squeezing Draco’s shoulder. Hard.

“Manners,” Draco muttered without looking at Ron. “I’m not finished.”

Ron leaned in, his lips grazing Draco’s earlobe. “Yes, you are. We’ve got company.”

Draco stiffened instantly.

The squib’s eyes widened.

“Don’t turn about,” Ron warned. “I think we should all head for the back room, nice and easy. Don’t want them throwing an anti-Apparation ward. Stay close together. _Very close_.”

The squib nodded; Draco laughed and stood up, squeezing Ron’s arse. Ron threw his arm about the squib’s shoulders and the trio headed across the floor.

“Don’t leave me here,” the squib whispered to Ron, his voice shaky. “You know what they’ll do to me.” He stared, his pale green eyes welling with tears.

“We can’t…” Draco began.

“Save it,” Ron hissed through clenched teeth. He sensed movement behind them, followed by heavy footfalls on the floorboards. They were now a foot from the door. “As soon as we’re in the back room, I’ll side-along us. Quintuple jump. We’ll figure what to do with…um…with…”

“Devon,” the squib said.

“Right, fine. Charmed,” Ron replied. “We’ll take care of you later.”

Draco reached out and flung open the door. The footfalls thudded louder and faster; someone screamed.

“Shite!” Devon wailed.

More yells and screams, chairs and tables overturning.

Curses.

Hexes.

“Inside!” Ron yelled, pulling Draco and Devon in close and pushing through the door. A ball of green light exploded over Draco’s shoulder as they ducked into the storage room.

Ron closed his eyes in concentration, his mind racing as he began the multiple Apparition. He’d never side-alonged with two other people, but he knew that theoretically, it was possible. He focused on their first destination just as a searing blossom of pain erupted from his right shoulder and consumed him…

 

~~~~~~

 

…Ron dared to crack open an eye. Wherever he was, it was blessedly dim. He tilted his head on the pillow only to groan loudly as bolts of pain shot down his shoulder, arm and back. His head felt fuzzy by contrast, and he couldn’t quite focus his eyes. He strained to take in the room: two heavily curtained windows, crude wooden door, low beamed ceiling. A dying fire smouldered away in a rough hearth.

His head throbbed anew, and he closed his eyes.

Birds. Lots of them nearby. A low, rhythmic roaring sound. Flow and ebb. Flow and ebb. Waves. He was very near the sea, obviously. His grip on consciousness slipped, and he fell thankfully into the incredibly soft mattress. Jon would be by to sort it all out…soon…

…Jon gently lifted his head and held the phial to his lips. Ron swallowed the foul smelling potion and gagged. Jon held a cloth to his mouth until the spasms subsided, carefully lowering his head back to the pillow.

“Thanks, mate, you’re the best,” he murmured, reaching out for Jon, who caught his hand and held it firmly. Ron sighed and slept some more…

…thunder rumbled again, and he tried to sit up, his muscles still stiff and unresponsive. He managed to get up on his elbows, blinking vigorously in an attempt to clear his vision. Lightning lit up the windows as the ragged curtains flapped in the stiff breeze. More thunder roiled angrily. He sat up and rolled his legs over the edge of the bed, his head throbbing. He rubbed his sore right shoulder and shivered slightly. The room was empty, the blazing fire his only companion.

Another flash of lightning blinded him, and his brain canted sideways. The room swam into darkness as the floor came up to meet him…

…Jon lifted him back into bed. He felt a warm cloth on his pebbled skin as Jon washed his bare torso and face. Some more potion, and then the covers were pulled up to his chin. He tried to open his eyes, but his lids felt as lead. “Jon! Jon!” he croaked out, seemingly hearing his own voice for the first time. “Please…Jon…cold…so cold.” He tried to sit up but a strong hand held him down. The covers were pulled back and he felt Jon slip into the bed and snuggle up next to him, a warm arm thrown over his chest. “Thas’ better,” he mumbled just before sleep claimed him…

…the birds were quite loud, their shrill cries slicing through his thin veil of sleep. Ron cracked open an eye, expecting the now familiar, sharp pain in his skull. He was surprised to find it strangely absent. He blinked a few times, relieved to find his vision clear. He took a few deep breaths and felt no pain in his back, neck or chest. He still felt stiff and a bit sore, but that was most likely because he’d been in bed for so long.

Jon stirred behind him, and Ron moaned, pressing against Jon, the sensation of his bare skin against Jon’s chest nearly too delicious to bear in his weakened state. Ron ran a hand across Jon’s hip, savoring the proximity.

He still had no idea where he was or how long he’d been ill. He thought a bit, recalling the last few moments in the Lusty Lass. Some sort of curse had hit him, obviously, a right nasty one too, just as he was about to Apparate them away…

Them. He and that squib, and…and…

Ron turned his head to see Draco smiling back at him.

“Ah, good to see the fever’s broken. Touch and go there for a bit.” He smirked, his grey eyes ablaze.

Ron closed his eyes. “Bloody hell.”

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

Ron hunched over the small table, watching as Draco stoked the fire. He stirred his bowl of soup listlessly, not at all hungry and a bit disoriented. He wasn’t at all certain that he still wasn’t experiencing some sort of life-like hallucination, another odd after effect from the curse.

“Eat that before it gets cold. Doesn’t do you any good in the bowl,” Draco admonished from the fireplace.

Ron glared at Draco, who rolled his eyes and returned to tending the fire. 

No, that sounded entirely like the Draco he’d known for nearly a decade. Too real to have been imagined. 

_Shite._

He reluctantly tucked into the soup, lost in thought.

He’d nearly jumped out of the bed earlier when he’d realised finally that Jon wasn’t actually snuggled next to him. He would have, but he’d still felt oddly weak, as if his body were on some sort of time delay. Part of the waning effects of the curse, _Reptum Deficio_ or some such. Draco’s amusement at his obvious discomfort was nearly driving Ron to distraction. 

Still typically Malfoy, the arse.

They’d successfully Apparated from the pub, but he’d quickly lost consciousness. Draco had managed to jump them to this safe house on the coast, just outside of Gairloch. It was unplottable, known only to the most trusted Order members. His condition worsened dramatically, and Draco, fearful of moving Ron or Apparating him while in such a state, had fetched a mediwitch from Torridon. The diagnosis was quickly and easily arrived at, and Draco had dutifully administered the healing regimen of simple charms and potions. 

They'd been at the Lustful Lass six days ago, which meant that Draco had tended to him for nearly a week. And it might be a fortnight before he was well enough to travel again. 

As his mind gradually cleared, Ron finally thought to ask after the squib. What was his name? David? Donald? "Um, Draco, where did you leave that squib?"

"Devon," Draco replied without looking up. 

"Right. Devon." Ron watched as Draco finished stacking the firewood, wiping his hands on his denims and moving to the small sink. He primed the pump and drew a pitcher of water. 

"You were hit with that curse just as you were about to Apparate us. The force of the impact threw us all to the floor. You weren't incoherent then, not yet, but you were obviously unable to Apparate yourself, let alone all three of us." Draco brought the pitcher and two glasses to the table and sat down. He finally met Ron's gaze then, his grey eyes oddly flat and tired. "We had to get out of there, and our three friends were about to crash into the storeroom. I had no choice, Ron, understand that."

"I'm not sure I follow you," Ron replied, "We're here, safe..."

" _We_ are," Draco murmured, absently drumming his fingers on the edge of the table top. He stared for a moment before averting his eyes. "I wasn't certain that I could have gotten all three of us out of there safely." He picked at his wool jumper. "Never was very good at Apparating, let alone multiple side-alongs while under extreme duress." He continued to study the table top, his mouth a thin line. Draco’s gaze flickered between Ron, the table, and some point off in space. 

Ron put down his spoon as the silence lengthened and grew between them. This was most definitely un-Malfoy-like behaviour, to be sure, almost as if…

“You left him behind,” Ron stated softly. He’d intended his tone to convey understanding and empathy, but when Draco’s head snapped up and his eyes narrowed, Ron knew that he’d been somewhat less than successful.

“Too fucking right I did,” Draco replied angrily. 

“Draco, I didn’t mean to imply you did anything wrong,” Ron said.

Draco snorted. “How magnanimous of you.”

Ron leaned forward. “What I'm trying to say is...”

Draco cut him off with a wave of his hand. "Save it." He rubbed his forehead with one hand while summoning an ale from a rucksack with the other. The brown bottle shot across the room, hitting the palm of Draco’s hand with a sharp slap. "Should’ve left your sorry arse back there, too. Not sure why I bothered. Shite!” He flicked a finger and the cap popped off; it plinked across the table to plop directly into Ron’s soup. 

Ron watched as Draco took several swallows of ale. He wasn’t sure whether he should be surprised or angry. This was a very different Draco from the one that he’d known at school or even during the past few weeks. Draco was clearly upset, and more with himself than anyone else. Ron noted the dark smudges under Draco’s eyes, the way fatigue was clearly written in the far too deep lines about his mouth and lips. His normally pale skin now carried a somewhat grayish cast. Ron had seen the telltale signs of stress and exhaustion many times before; if Draco didn’t get some rest and relaxation himself, and soon, they’d both be off the spit and into the fire. 

“You shouldn’t blame yourself for what happened,” Ron started again. “You need to...”

“Don’t _tell_ me what I need to do,” Draco spat, swallowing more ale. He stared beyond and above Ron, his eyes focused on someplace very far away. “I knew you were hurt. I knew that you wouldn’t be able to Apparate us. _All_ of us. Everything was happening so quickly, yet not. You began muttering nonsense, Devon was absolutely frantic, pawing and clawing at me, people were screaming, hexes and curses exploding everywhere.” He snuffled and locked gazes with Ron. “And you’re so bloody heavy, and then your legs gave way and we all fell to the floorboards...”

Ron’s head began to throb again. “I think I know how it must have been.”

“Don’t patronize me,” Draco replied, finishing his ale and banishing the bottle with a savage swipe of his hand. “Just don’t! There wasn’t any time. I didn’t even think about it...”

“You did what had to be done...”

“...I just pushed him away...”

“...it’s as simple as that, Draco...”

“...and he was sobbing and begging me to take him with us...”

“...and it’s never easy...”

“...but I knew that if I tried to Apparate all three of us...”

“...to make a decision like that.”

“...we’d all be dead, or worse.” Draco took a deep breath and closed his eyes. “So I fucking stunned him and left him behind.” He paused for many moments before wiping at his eyes and speaking again. “Probably should’ve killed him flat out. Better that than being tortured to death.” He summoned another ale and opened it. “Never could do anything correctly. So go ahead, then. Have at it and tell me how I fucked up. How I failed. I know you’re dying to say so.” He drank deeply from his bottle and leaned back in his chair, as if ready for some sort of storm to wash over him.

Ron’s head was now throbbing steadily and his fingers were becoming numb. He desperately wanted nothing more than to shamble back to the bed and have a good lie down, but Draco’s obvious distress was too intriguing to ignore. He’d never really thought of it before, but it wasn’t hard to imagine the sort of life Draco must have endured under his father. Lucius was the foulest of the foul, but that fact didn’t excuse every one of Draco‘s behaviors. Explained them, yes. 

He reached across the small table and gently laid his hand on Draco’s forearm. “Actually, all I want to say is thank you. Thanks for saving my life. Truly. I’m in your debt.”

Draco’s mouth fell open and he stared at Ron as if he’d sprouted antennae. He jerked his arm away. “I don’t believe you.”

Ron shrugged. “Your prerogative, I reckon. But that’s the way of it in times like these. A lot of us aren’t going to make it out of this, you know. But we all take the risks, and we do so willingly. I’d expect that Devon knew and accepted those risks, otherwise he wouldn’t have been with us at the Lusty Lass.” He leaned back in his chair, wincing slightly at his rapidly increasing headache. “You did the best you could, and I’m grateful for it. It that‘s not good enough for you, fine. Wallow about in your little pool of self-pity as long as you like, for all the good it‘ll do.”

Draco stared for another long moment, his eyes once again sharp and focused before shaking his head. “Leave it to me to get stuck with the most philosophical Weasley of them all.”

Ron smirked. “Worse luck. You could’ve been paired with Finnigan, and then you’d _really_ have something to complain about.” He gauged Draco’s reaction and was pleased to note the slightest upturn of one corner of Draco’s mouth. 

Draco snorted. “Shudder to think,” he murmured. “I sit corrected.” He sipped at his ale. “Still, if only…”

Ron cut him off. “If only my grand mum’d had wheels, then she’d a been a wagon.” He sat up, preparing to head back to the bed. He had to work very hard to suppress a wide smile. 

Draco was now smirking crookedly. “I can just envision the scene about the Weasley breakfast table now, a veritable flood of metaphors, puns, and poorly fashioned jokes. Merlin.”

Ron shrugged and made to stand, his vision immediately swimming out of focus. He sat down heavily, both hands flat on the table. 

“Don’t want to stand too quickly,” Draco said as he set his ale down. “ _Reptum Deficio_ is a nasty one. With the help of the mediwitch, I’ve managed to halt its wasting effects on your ambric energies, but it will take some time for them to replenish.”

“I feel pretty good,” Ron replied, rubbing his forehead. “A bit light-headed is all.”

Draco stood and walked over to stand beside Ron. “Hold your hand out over the table, palm down.” 

Ron cocked his head to one side.

“Just do it,” Draco sighed. 

Ron complied and rolled his eyes. 

“Don’t let me push your arm down. Here we go.” Draco laid his hand atop Ron’s and began applying pressure, gently to start but increasing it rapidly.

Ron resisted Draco's efforts easily at first. After all, he was a good head taller than Draco, and had to have at least forty pounds on him as well. He’d filled out quite a bit in the last few years, sporting both Bill’s height and Charlie’s muscular build. Even in his weakened state, the slim, lanky Slytherin couldn’t possibly…

“Shite!” Ron yelped as Draco slammed his arm to the table. 

“Now lift it up,” Draco instructed with a crooked grin.

Ron struggled to lift his arm, but it wouldn’t respond. It seemed the more he tried, the weaker he became. Sweat beaded on his brow, dripping down his temples. “Fuck,” he sighed. “Can’t do it.”

Draco harrumphed. “Of course not. The curse also drains away physical strength. It had a good couple of hours to insinuate itself into your system before I was able to get the mediwitch here. I wanted to Apparate you to hospital straightaway, but she wouldn't hear of one jump, let alone the multiples that we'd needed to do to innorder to cover our tracks properly. You're doing well, but far from fully healed." He paused for a moment and looked almost as if he were about to say something further. He quickly pushed some stray locks out of Ron's eyes. He then moved behind Ron, slipping his hands under Ron's arms.

Ron stood up, his legs as rubber. "Bloody hell," he muttered as he stumbled, falling against Draco and throwing an arm about the blond's shoulders. 

They hobbled the several feet to the bed, both dropping heavily to the mattress. Ron flopped down and swung his legs up while Draco fetched another phial of potion. By the time Draco handed it to him, Ron had gotten comfortable and pulled the quilt up to his chest.

"Cheers," Draco said as he handed over the potion.

"Up you bum," Ron replied, swallowing the foul mixture. "Shite."

Draco sniggered. "You'll sleep now. I'll be gone for a few hours, for provisions. Just stay in that bed and rest. No fooling about or heroics. Or should I just conjure up some restraints and lash you to the bed right now?"

Ron's mind immediately filled with an image of his wrists tied to the headboard with a very naked Draco looming over his own similarly nude body. _Now where in Hade's Hounds had that come from?_ "Fine, yeah, whatever," Ron mumbled, the potion already taking effect. "You'd a made Pomfrey proud with bedside manner like that."

"Just shut it and sleep," Draco said as he turned to leave.

"Hey, thanks again," Ron slurred. "For everything."

Draco turned about and nodded slightly. "Sleep. _Now_."

Ron snuggled down into the pillows and closed his eyes. He barely heard Draco's footsteps across the rough floorboards and the soft creaking of the door as it opened; he was asleep by the time it clinked shut...

 

~~~~~~

 

...He could hear his Mum working in the kitchen, the soft clinking of pots and pans in the sink a familiar counterpoint to the sound of her cutting up something on the huge, well-worn chopping block. He rolled over on the comfy sofa, straining to hear the faint sounds of the Wizarding Wireless as Aaron Nightshade droned on about the upcoming Quidditch Match of the Week. And something smelled wonderful, so...

Ron opened his eyes to find Draco bustling away at the small worktable next to the pump and sink. A large kettle hung over the fire in the hearth, emitting the glorious aroma. A tiny Muggle radio sat on the table, obviously altered to pick up the Wizarding Wireless. Nightshade was wrapping up his pre-game programme, jabbering away about the day’s match between Ballycastle and Montrose, set to start in a few minutes. Ron pushed up on his elbows and cleared his throat.

Draco turned about. “Finally awake then. Good timing. Just about ready here.” He walked over the fireplace with a small cutting board and dumped what looked like diced meat into the kettle. “Can’t guarantee how palatable this will be, but it’ll have to do. Haven’t had that much of an opportunity to properly cook lately, and the selection of retail establishments is rather thin around here.” He paused a moment before averting his gaze and returning to the worktable. 

Ron sat up slowly, easing his feet to the floor. His head was blessedly clear, and he felt quite whole for a change. “Whatever that is, it smells wonderful,” he said. “I’m more than a bit peckish, too." 

"A good sign," Draco replied without turning. 

Ron stood up and stretched. His back and shoulders popped satisfyingly, and he tentatively bent down to touch his toes. "Merlin, I'm stiff." He straightened up and winced slightly. "Oy, I smell like a skrewt pen on a hot summer's day." He pulled his wrinkled t-shirt over his head and tossed it down. He silently cast a mild cleansing charm on himself and the bedclothes, looking about the room. "Where's my wand?"

Draco turned about but remained silent. He stared at Ron, his eyes taking in every inch of Ron's bare chest, stomach, and legs. He made no attempt to hide his obvious assessment, and he actually smiled in an altogether wicked manner. He took a few steps forward, wiping his hands on a tattered tartan cloth. “It’s in your rucksack, over there.” He gestured to the far corner by the door. “Fortunately, you had a death grip on your wand after you’d been cursed, so that came back with us from the Lusty Lass. Once you’d been tended to by the mediwitch and stabilized, I jumped back to the campsite to collect our belongings.”

Ron nodded, nearly transfixed as Draco’s eyes once again travelled up and down his body and back again. He knew he wasn’t too hateful to look at, but he certainly wasn’t handsome, like Jon or Harry. And he’d seen that look before, though never in a million years had he expected to see it on Draco’s face. “Rather dangerous move, wasn’t it?” 

Draco shrugged and took a few steps closer. “Dangerous times. I was careful. The camp had been ransacked, of course, but little if anything taken as far as I can tell. I managed to get a few clean fingerprints as well as a partial ambric energy signature. Should help The Order positively identify at least one of our trio of Death Eaters.” He arched an eyebrow. “Besides, we couldn’t have you prancing about in nothing but a t-shirt and boxers.”

“Prance? Sorry, but I don’t _prance_ ,” Ron replied, doing his best to sound wounded. He moved over to his rucksack and knelt down to rummage about in it for some fresh clothes.

“Everything’s been cleaned,” Draco said from behind him. 

“You’ve been busy,” Ron answered, pulling out a pair of denims and his favourite Chudley t-shirt. 

“Bored would be a more accurate description,” Draco responded dryly. 

Ron felt fingers gently trace a spot on his upper back; he started in spite of himself.

“Sorry,” Draco said softly. “Just checking on how your wound’s healing. How’s that feel when I press on it?”

Ron felt a tingling but little more. “Nothing really...yowch!”

“Still tender, then. You’ll have a right nasty scar where the curse hit. Wounds from Dark magic are notoriously slow to heal.” 

Ron swivelled around, looking up at Draco. “So I’ve heard. Well, what’s one more scar, eh?” He stood up and was once again surprised as Draco stepped even closer; they were barely a few inches apart. 

“How'd you get this one?” Draco asked, his fingers tracing a long, thin scar that ran the entire length of Ron’s right collarbone.

“Wasn’t fast enough to duck a _Septumsempra_. From your mate Crabbe. Happened during the battle at Hogwarts.” Ron watched as Draco’s index finger trailed down over his furred chest, stopping on a very red and puckered circular scar the size of a galleon. 

Draco looked up, his grey eyes fire-bright. “And this one?” 

Ron sucked in a breath. “Oy, that tickles a bit.” He cleared his throat. “Um, I got that one a few months ago when Jon and I ran into a clutch of Inferi north of Aviemore. One of them tried to put his hand right through me. Only managed a finger, though. Didn’t know they could do that.”

Draco merely nodded, lingering a moment longer before moving his hand and running it along Ron’s forearm. He gazed at the thin, intricate traceries of scars there, and their mates on his other forearm. "I know what made these," he whispered, caressing one particularly thick, red scar. "Department of Mysteries, yes?"

"Yeah," Ron agreed. "They'll never fully heal. Damned sensitive to sunlight, too. Bloody brains." 

Draco then followed another long, thin and rather ragged scar that marred the freckled skin of Ron’s left bicep. “And this? Death Eater? Inferi? Banshee?”

Ron chuckled. “Worse. Fred. When I was nine. The twins and I liked to play pirates on this rickety raft we’d made that summer. We used real swords just the once. Mum was furious. Fred was on chicken coop duty for nearly a year.” 

Draco nodded and studied the floorboards. "I'm sorry about Fred," he murmured. "I know we didn't get along, any of us, but..."

"Draco," Ron asked, tilting his head in an attempt to make eye contact, "why are you doing this?"

"Doing what? Expressing my condolences about your dead brother? Is there something wrong with that?"

Ron shook his head. "No, not at all. Just surprising, really. Especially considering our past history."

Draco rolled his eyes. "Right. Forgive me. I failed to remember that one must forever be held accountable for their past misdeeds. Daft of me to believe otherwise." He moved to go, but Ron clamped a large hand on his shoulder.

"That's not what I meant," Ron said firmly. "You've more than proven your loyalty to The Order over the past few years. Everyone knows you were under the threat of death to carry out that plan to allow Death Eaters into Hogwarts during sixth year. Once Snape came clean, that was all sorted. And it can't have been easy growing up with that father of yours." He squeezed Draco's shoulder. "So I think I understand."

"You don't," Draco said through clenched teeth. "Just forget I said anything at all."

Ron was about to speak again when the kettle boiled over. 

Draco wrenched away and stalked over to the hearth. "Go ahead and get dressed," he said. "Don't want you catching your death after all this trouble I've gone through. I'll be dishing up in a few minutes." He charmed the flames down and stirred the contents of the kettle viciously. He spared Ron a withering stare before he rose and gathered up some bowls and utensils. 

By the time Ron dressed, Draco had served up some sort of mutton stew, which smelled heavenly. The Ballycastle vs. Montrose match had been under way for only a few minutes, and it was clear that Draco was keenly interested in the game. They sat down and silently tucked into the stew. Draco summoned an ale for himself; after a short pause, Ron summoned one as well. Draco frowned his disapproval, but Ron shrugged and took a long, deep pull on his bottle. The ale was dark with the slightest hint of chocolate. He was also famished, and finished his bowl of stew in record time. He started to rise in order to get another serving, but Draco deftly took the bowl and re-filled it himself. Ron couldn't suppress a grin as Draco plonked the bowl down onto the table in front of him. 

They ate in silence for a while, listening to the animated announcer bark out the play by plays. Montrose took an early lead, but Ballycastle refused to lie down.

"Nifty radio," Ron observed. "Hope you have plenty of batteries." 

Draco shook his head. "Doesn't require any. New Muggle design. You just turn the crank there and it plays for hours. The clerk also mentioned that it runs off of sunlight or some such." 

Ron nodded. "Clever. Dad would love this. A bit extravagant, isn‘t it?"

"You like Quidditch," Draco stated evenly, as if that explained everything.

"And so do you," Ron countered.

"There you go then," Draco replied. "More stew?" He made to grab Ron's bowl.

"No, thanks," Ron said, covering the bowl with his hand. "I'm stuffed."

Draco took a sip of his ale and sat back in his chair. "Wasn't that good, was it? Sorry."

Ron picked up his own bottle. "Enough of that. It was excellent, really. Thanks for going through all the trouble, Draco. For the stew, and, well, everything."

Draco made a rude noise. "You don't have to keep thanking me, Ron."

Ron sat back and smiled. That was one of the few times Draco had used his name aloud. He liked the way it sounded, flowing across Draco's thin lips. Now why was that, exactly? He yawned and stretched, suddenly feeling a bit fatigued. He rubbed his eyes, wincing at the first hints of an impending headache. 

"Have a lie down," Draco said as he rose and charmed the bowls over to the sink. He turned to glare at Ron, jerking his head to indicate the bed. "Go on. Rest. The faster you recover, the faster we'll be out of here."

Ron plumped up the pillows and lay down, half-sitting up. He watched Draco work for a few moments before closing his eyes. He tried to concentrate on the Quidditch match, and had Chudley been playing he might have succeeded...

 

~~~~~

 

_...the Inferi moves closer, its flat, dead eyes seemingly sightless, its breath ice cold and foul. He backs away, fumbling for his wand but not finding it. He can hear a host of shuffles and thumps in the darkness as more undead shamble through the bracken toward him. He can hear their wheezing and hacking breath, a multitude of death rattles amplified and frozen in time. “Jon! Jon!” he cries out, his voice shockingly hoarse and muffled. The Inferi lunges again and he trips over a root and falls backward, landing in a tangle of thistle and nettles. The Inferi falls on him, its mouth agape in a scream of triumph. It thrusts its fingers savagely into his chest, its clawed fingernails tearing through the fabric of his shirt and scraping away skin. He tries to push the undead thing away and scrabble for his wand at the same time, but the Inferi is persistent, relentless, ruthless. He screams out in pain as the creature thrusts a finger into his flesh repeatedly, harder and harder. “Jon! Help me!” he gasps as the dark energy of the Inferi begins to course through his body. He cannot escape; he cannot get free. His vision blurs, his limbs are as lead. His strength wanes, his resolve crumbles just as a searing light blinds him and..._

...Draco hovered over him, kneeling on the bed and shaking him vigorously. "It's a dream, Ron. Just a dream." 

Ron gazed about the dim room frantically, pushing away from Draco and huddling against the wall. "Bloody hell," he gasped, rubbing his eyes. "I fucking hate that dream." He looked up at Draco, suddenly embarrassed.

"Have it often, then?"

"No, not really,” Ron replied. “Often enough, though." Draco was staring at him intently. "What?"

Draco sat down on the mattress and shook his head. "You were calling for MacLeod."

"I was?" Ron asked. "Makes sense, I suppose. He's the one that was with me then."

Draco picked at the quilt. "You call out in your sleep every night." He met Ron's gaze. "Sometimes Jon's name, sometimes Harry's. Or Charlie's."

Ron shrugged. "I didn't know that. Jon never said anything about it, and I certainly don't recall crying out."

“Do you want to talk about it?” Draco asked, his voice nearly a whisper.

“Not much to say, really,” Ron offered. “I told you about the Inferi Jon and I ran into. Nasty creatures. Cold, slimy, and they smell horrid. Sharp claws. That’s about it.”

Draco nodded, his expression pensive. “You were nearly killed, though.”

Ron shrugged. “Well, I wouldn‘t say that…I suppose if Jon hadn’t been only a few yards away…”

“Then you’d have been Turned,” Draco said.

“But I wasn’t, and that’s that,” Ron answered a bit tersely. “I don’t understand…”

Draco waved a hand. “Sorry, didn’t mean to pry.” He remained silent a moment before nodding and standing up. "Well, if you're fine then..."

"I'm okay," Ron replied. "Where are you going?"

Draco hooked a thumb to the far side of the room. "Back to sleep, where else?"

Ron furrowed his brow. "On the floor?"

Draco cocked his head to one side. "No, not on the floor, genius. I've a bedroll, remember?"

Ron folded his arms. "Not very bright to sleep on the floor when there's a bed in the same room."

Draco harrumphed. "You want me to sleep with you?"

Ron threw up his hands. "Haven't you slept with me before? I know I'm not hallucinating that. Jon and I shared a bedroll nearly all of the time."

"You were ill, then, cold and shivering, calling for Jon and Harry. Delirious. The only thing that seemed to calm you down was when I climbed into the bed with you." 

"Look," Ron began, "sleep on the sodding floor if you like. But don't tell me it's comfortable, or that you prefer it that way. I can tell you're stiff and sore just by the way you walk about. And you don't look like you're sleeping well, either." 

Draco planted his hands on his hips. 

"Don't be so bloody stubborn," Ron admonished. "Just get that skinny arse over here and climb in." He pulled the quilts back and patted the mattress. "Succumb to the logic of the situation, Draco."

"Oh, sweet Merlin," Draco groaned as he stomped over to the bed and flopped in. He pulled the quilt up to his chin and stared at the ceiling. "First of all, I've been told by more than a few that I have a rather decent arse, thank you very much."

Ron barely covered his laughter with a hasty cough. "Okay."

"And secondly, you've got the balls of a hippogriff to say that _I'm_ stubborn. Bloody red head! Shite!"

Ron grinned widely. "Finished?"

"Completely," Draco replied.

"Good."

"Right," Draco said as he charmed out the oil lamp and lowered the fire. "Keep to your own side of the bed, and mind the covers. I don't fancy waking up with only the ruddy sheet. Blasted quilt monger, you are."

"On second thought," Ron mused, "perhaps this wasn't a good idea after all."

Draco sighed loudly, turning on his side and showing his back to Ron. "Oh, just shut it, will you?"

Ron sniggered as he made himself comfortable. He stretched out, his left hand brushing against the swell of Draco's arse; Ron waited for Draco to pull away, but he didn't. 

 

~~~~~~

 

...He snuggled against Jon, slowly sliding his hand under Jon's shirt. He trailed his fingers along the centre of Jon's stomach and chest, circling a nipple and gently playing with the rapidly hardening nub. Jon moaned softly as he pressed his morning erection into the cleft of Jon's arse. Jon responded by leaning into him and moaning a bit louder. He nuzzled the back of Jon's neck and reached over and along the curve of Jon's hip, his fingertips just grazing the head of Jon's erection. "Oh, Jon," Ron murmured, his hips thrusting back and forth ever so slightly.

Jon reciprocated by pressing his arse firmly against him and guiding his hand down to more firmly stroke his own erection. He then nibbled and licked the lobe of Jon's ear, his fingers curling about Jon's cock and pulling on it with increased fervour. 

"Want to fuck you," Ron moaned deeply.

"Pardon me!" Draco exclaimed as he rolled away from Ron and off the edge of the bed, taking most of the quilts with him. "Damn it, I'm not Jon!" he huffed from beneath the tangle of bedclothes. 

Ron peered over the edge of the bed just as Draco whipped the quilt away. "Sorry, mate," Ron rumbled, his voice still thick and heavy with sleep. "I know you're you. I didn't mean to...you felt so good...I mean..."

Draco held up a hand. "No worries. Let's just move on, shall we?" 

Ron blinked, unsure of what to say next. "Draco, I..."

"I think I'll head outside for a quick wash-up. Be back in a bit to make breakfast." Draco stood up, struggling to conceal his obvious hard-on. "Just...well, whatever," he stammered as he turned and rushed out the door wearing nothing but a thin shirt and boxers. 

Ron rubbed his eyes and lay back down, his head already beginning to throb. Yeah, he finally had to admit that he was very much into Jon, and if the stocky Scot were about right now, the two of them would most likely be shagging like a pair of boarhounds in heat. But Jon wasn't there, and Draco was, and what in the Seven Hells was going on? There'd been no mistaking the hungry stares that he'd been getting from Draco; he clearly found Ron attractive in some way, if only physically, but Ron was somehow sure it went a bit deeper than that. 

Most everyone was of the opinion that he had the emotional depth of a mud puddle, which couldn't be farther from the truth. He was a Weasley after all, and his temper was well known, but literally no one, save Charlie, knew that his passions were just as intense, just as strong. He held onto _those_ emotions very tightly; he wasn't sure why or how he'd evolved that way, it was simply his way. Just because he wasn't prone to wearing his heart on his sleeve didn't mean he didn't have one. Draco wouldn't be the first person to underestimate him so. 

Ron shifted about on the bed, his hand trailing down his stomach and over the waistband of his boxers to stroke his erection. _Must be feeling better_ , he thought as he rubbed himself harder, the feel of the smooth fabric against his hard cock wonderfully stimulating. He hadn't a good wank in ages, and he was long overdue. 

He lifted his hips and shoved his boxers down, working them off his legs while he cast a silent Lubricus. He moaned deeply as the warm, slippery sensation spread from the tip of his erection all the way down to his balls. He stroked himself firmly with one hand while the other drifted up to tease one of his nipples, mercilessly pinching and twisting the nub of flesh. 

He gasped with satisfaction, pulling on his cock with increasing intensity. His thumb teased the slit of his erection with each upstroke. He closed his eyes, envisioning a shirtless Jon for the briefest of moments. His mind's eye then shifted to Draco, whom he'd seen totally starkers recently when they'd used public showers in Tain. Draco was indeed slim, and his long, lithe body went on for miles, all pale, unmarred milky skin and taut muscle, with only a smattering of white blond hair about his nipples, running straight down his abdomen and ending in a neat thatch of curls surrounding his slender but rather long cock. 

Ron bit his lip to stifle the moans as he pulled on his nipple and increased the speed and intensity of his strokes. In his fantasy Draco turned about, the spray of water sheeting down his slicked and shiny skin, the mist rising and swirling all about as Draco lathered himself with relish. Draco's long, slim fingers toyed with his own nipples before one hand strayed down to service his now erect cock.

_"Ohfuckyes,"_ Ron breathed as he neared release, the Draco in his vision similarly ready to orgasm. A stroke later and Ron arched his back, his ejaculate spurting through his fingers and onto his belly. He flicked his thumb across the now hyper-sensitive head of his spent prick, gasping each time. He then ran his fingers all through and around his rapidly drying spunk, enjoying the amazing slickness before it was gone. 

He'd just had the wank of his life, and Draco Malfoy had played the lead role in his fantasy. 

"Blimey," he murmured to the empty room. "Now what?"

 

~~~~~

 

Ron had managed to clean himself and the bed up, as well as stoke the hearth and get the teapot over the fire before he'd needed to lie down again. He was listening to 'Top of The Pops' on the Wizarding Wireless with his eyes closed when he heard the door open and bang shut. He feigned sleep, hoping that to avoid any sort of confrontation with Draco might be the best course of action for the moment. Some folks needed time alone to stew, and Draco was certainly of that ilk. Not that Ron was sure of what he'd say anyway; he wasn't exactly good with words, but give him a chessboard or a problem to solve, and he was unstoppable.

He lay there for sometime, listening to Draco bustle about before he really did fall asleep...

 

~~~~~


	3. Chapter 3

"Ron, up with you. I've got some lunch here."

Ron opened one eye to find Draco towering over him. "Lunch," he repeated thickly. "Okay." 

Draco nodded and moved away.

Ron hoisted himself up, charming his teeth clean and banishing his bad breath. He padded over to where Draco was working, barely succeeding in suppressing the urge to wrap his arms about Draco's waist. He settled for laying a hand on his shoulder. "You didn't have to run off like that."

Draco stiffened slightly but made no attempt to unseat Ron's hand. "I thought it prudent to make a hasty exit before things got out of hand."

"Draco, I'm confused," Ron said, daring to press ever so slightly against Draco. "I'm not the straightest wand in the box, but I'm not blind, either. I was certain..."

"Fuck," Draco breathed as he gently pulled away and turned about. "Whatever you think you're feeling, just forget it. We're paired together and working for The Order, nothing more. We can't... _I_ can't let it be more than that." He let out a deep breath and stood there, his eyes red and bloodshot. 

Ron nodded and stared at the floor. So he'd been on the right track after all. Something had indeed been happening between them, and he hadn't been the only one to recognize it. And now Draco was attempting to take the easy way out. 

"Listen, mate,” Ron said, “it's like this: I would never presume to tell you what you should think or feel. I've known you for nearly a decade, but I haven't really gotten to _know_ you, the real you, until these last few days. Having said that, I have to respect your wishes, however ill-conceived I feel they may be." 

Draco shot him the look that normally would have heralded a blistering retort of epic Malfoysian proportions. Instead, he merely nodded. "You realize of course that whatever feelings you _think_ you may have for me aren't genuine. Rather common phenomenon, really. Quite natural for a patient to develop feelings of gratitude or attachment to their caregiver."

Ron folded his arms. "I see. But then that only covers me. What about you?"

"What _about_ me?" Draco asked with incredulity. "I've already told you, I can't allow us to...to...become involved."

"Right, right," Ron replied, stroking the whiskers on his chin. "So if I hear you correctly, you've totally invalidated my feelings but you've just admitted to harbouring similar ones of your own, but at the same time you're going to deny them based on some strange ideology that it would be somehow wrong for you to do so."

Draco gaped at Ron for many moments before speaking again. "Okay, who are you and what have you done with Ron Weasley? I've never heard you speak like that before."

"Surprise," Ron shot back.

"I wasn't attempting to invalidate anything," Draco replied, obviously struggling to maintain an even tone. "This simply isn't the most optimal situation for something like this to develop. And there are other considerations, that you know nothing about, that conspire to make the idea of anything happening between us all the more unlikely."

"You've clearly given this a great deal of thought," Ron said. "So now I hear you saying that you're well aware that we have mutual feelings of attraction, but the timing is all wrong."

Draco shook his head and sighed heavily. "No, no, that's not what I meant at all."

Ron shrugged. "Well, that's what you just said."

Draco threw up his hands and turned about. "You have no fucking idea what you're asking of me. Not the slightest clue. You crash through everything, like some big, bumbling hippogriff in a china shop, all lopsided smiles, ridiculous analogies, and simplistic life views that just don't hold up in the real world." He turned slowly, his gaze averted, hands planted firmly on hips. 

"Wow, that's rather harsh," Ron answered, nodding slightly and taking a few steps toward Draco. "Not sure where the love is in all that, but here's the deal, then." He slowly reached out and gently lifted Draco's chin. Draco pressed his lips together and locked his now steely eyes on Ron's. Ron thought for a moment before continuing. "There's nothing I can do to change what's happened in the past, both yours and mine, and our subsequent perceptions of each other. We're in the here and now, and I think it's a good idea to keep looking forward. We keep glancing behind us, and we're going to miss something, make mistakes, or worse. You're right, there are things about you that I don't know. Not really fair to hold that against me, now is it?" He waited a moment for a response, but hadn't expected one. "One of the reasons that we're out here is because we're looking forward, that we're hopeful for a future without Snakeface and his bloody arseholes, a future where we can get back on track. Better days, yeah? If we allow ourselves to be held back and be bogged down by everything that's gone before, we've already lost." He chuckled nervously. "Sorry if that's a bit simplistic, but I also think it's a good idea to not over analyse things."

Draco opened his mouth as if to speak, but then thought better of it. He moved past Ron to one of the small windows and pushed the dingy curtain aside. Ron followed, maintaining a discreet distance. Draco wiped at a wavy and pocked pane of glass. 

"I've done things, horrible things, Ron. I took the Dark Mark, I grovelled before that psychopath, kissed his bloody feet, pledged my allegiance to the Dark. I tormented both you and Potter the entire time I was at Hogwarts. I lied, I cheated, I did everything a good person isn't supposed to do. That's what I was taught, the only example that I knew."

"Go on," Ron said softly.

"But then I watched you and Potter and Granger, saw how you came together, how you treated each other, supported one another. Precious little of that in Slytherin House, I'll tell you. A few exceptions, though. Blaise and Pansy, and a few of the others that you know. And that's when I started to question, to dare to believe that there might be a better way."

"But your father," Ron offered.

Draco snorted as he still stared out the window. "Yeah, Lucius. You know what's really fucked? As much as I've grown to hate him, as thankful as I am that the miserable bastard will rot in Azkaban for the rest of his miserable, fucking life, it's difficult for me to blame him for what he became. It's how he was raised, what was pounded into his head from when he was a child. How could he have turned out any differently? He didn't stand a chance."

Ron stepped closer and placed his hands on Draco's shoulders. "He had free will. He chose to follow the darkest of the dark paths, Draco. He let himself fall into it. He didn't want to change."

"I hate to disagree," Draco replied evenly, "but I don't really think he had any chance to change. You see, when you're surrounded by darkness, when that's all you're immersed in, that's all you know, it colours your every perception, your every thought and belief. If you avoid the light, never even coming close to it, how can one possibly change? What was that rot in Muggle Studies? Surround yourself with positive, upbeat people, and that's what you'll become?" He chuckled mirthlessly. "Look at you. How could you have possibly turned out any differently, growing up in that cabal of red headed love and affection? So you know that the converse is also true. Darkness breeds darkness."

"But that doesn't apply to you, Draco. You've seen the alternative. You know there's another way than what you'd been shown. And you've embraced it. You've redeemed yourself, and every day from here on out will only add to that."

Draco shook his head. "Bloody hell, you're astounding! Salvation is instantaneous and all-encompassing, yes? With a word and a deed, I'm somehow absolved of all past transgressions." He turned about then, his eyes glistening. "I won't believe that even you are _that_ naive."

Ron shrugged and grinned. "Another Weasley character fault. Look for the silver lining in every dark cloud."

Draco rolled his eyes. "Shite."

"Just because I said to keep things simple doesn't mean that they'll be easy, by any means. Sure, there are people out there that will never, ever change their opinion of you. Forget those tossers. They're a minority. I know a great many more that have taken notice of your efforts and are suitably impressed by your dedication to the cause."

"I don't give a skrewt's bum whether anyone else is impressed or not. I'm not fighting for them," Draco huffed.

"Too right," Ron agreed. "Poor choice of words. I just meant to say that I'm not the only one who's taken note of the change in you, and are pleased to see it."

Draco stared at him for a moment and then started to chuckle. "Bloody fucking hell, you never give up, do you?"

Ron shook his head. "Nope. Never."

Draco muttered something under his breath, but Ron didn't catch it. He then turned around again to stare out the window. "I need a bit of time to sort things through."

"Fair enough," Ron replied, reaching out and giving Draco's shoulder a squeeze. 

Draco placed a hand on Ron's and returned the pressure. "Right, I've got to head into Strath for provisions at some point today, or we'll go hungry." He whirled away from Ron without so much as a glance and proceeded to busy himself by making some tea. "Probably ready for a lie down after all that prattling on and all."

"Sure," Ron lied. He obediently flopped down on the bed and settled in to watch as Draco prepared their breakfast.

 

~~~~~

 

They ate in silence, Draco deep within himself. He barely spared Ron a glance before he threw on a glamour and set out for Strath. 

Ron rifled through his rucksack, finally extracting a months old and well-worn copy of _Quidditch Stars Unrobed!_ He fiddled with the radio, frowning when all it would pick up was Wizarding Channel One, and some Muggle station blaring rubbish that sounded like a pair of screeching cats in a boiling cauldron. He settled for the lesser of two evils and selected Channel One, resigning himself to the insipid ‘Music for Homemakers’ programmes that filled the bulk of the weekday morning broadcast. 

After an hour of perusing _Unrobed!_ he felt a bit stiff and decided that he needed a breath of fresh air. He threw on his denims and boots, cast a glamour on himself, dropped the wards and stepped outside. It was early May, but the air still held onto a slight chill despite the bright sunshine. The small, stone cottage was quite old, backed into a small hillside and facing roughly northwest. This was the first time Ron had been outdoors since he and Draco had arrived. He took deep breaths, the air fresh and tinged with the tang of the nearby water. He turned about and raised the wards, grinning as the cottage faded from view. 

He set out on the narrow, curving track that wound its way amongst the grasses and small outcroppings of rock. The trees were few and rather windswept in appearance. He walked for a hundred yards or so before he crested a small hill and stopped, taking in the view. Draco had made mention of how beautiful the local landscape was, but mere words hadn’t done it justice. 

He stood on a high point of land and the trail continued down a gradual slope for another half-mile or so where it ended at a rather large beach. A sizable loch spread out further beyond, with a large, sheltered harbour on the left, and a much smaller one on the right. Nearly straight ahead, the loch met the open sea, and in the distance, shrouded in haze, lay the low hills of the Isle of Skye. 

“Brilliant,” Ron murmured as he continued down the track. Clouds had moved in occluding the sun, and Ron wished he’d thrown on a sweatshirt. As he walked, he began to notice what looked like the ruins of some sort of structure. He crested another small rise, and he stopped again. A jumble of ancient, cut stone of various sizes made a rough outline. Some sort of fort, Draco had said, although Ron couldn’t recall its name at the moment. Very old, that was certain; Iron Age? He’d have to ask Draco. 

Ron left the track, making his way through the ankle and knee high grasses. He came to a section of rough hewn stone steps, where he decided to have a rest. He sat down, knees pulled up to his chest, and gazed out across the water. 

The ruins were situated nearer to the smaller harbour, with the large beach just fifty or so yards below and to his right. If he’d wanted, he could have ambled down and walked along the beach for another mile and reached the first of the three villages that made up Gairloch proper. Ron only knew the name of the largest one, Strath, where Draco did most of their provisioning. 

He’d never been to this area of Scotland before, and though the ruins of Hogwarts weren’t really all that far away, this section of the Highlands was even more stunning. A small sailboat made its way across the water as the sun broke through and washed everything with light. 

It was hard to believe that a war was going on, that people were fighting and dying even as he sat there, taking in the idyllic scene below. Not that the Muggles knew anything as to what was going on in his world; a good thing, too, as they had troubles of their own, of which Ron was only peripherally aware. 

“Always hidden, always just below the surface,” he murmured to himself. One never really could see what lay beneath: the struggles, the conflicts, the pain. It was the same way with people. Ron thought of Draco and his demons, and how, until this morning, there hadn’t been so much as the tiniest clue as to the depths of Draco’s self-torment. Ron couldn’t fathom how such an obviously intelligent, clever individual could blind himself, convince himself that he was so totally, irrevocably lost and without hope. What horrific things had Draco been subjected to? How could his own father have done such things? 

The very concept of a parent behaving so heinously was so alien to Ron's experiences that it utterly boggled his mind. Sure, he knew people were capable of the most terrible things, and that child abuse, either physical, mental or both wasn't anything new, and it was rumoured that many of the students of Slytherin House came from less than wonderful households. He reasoned that the concept was suddenly so vexing due to Draco being the first individual that Ron knew personally that had come from such an upbringing. 

“Only time will tell,” he whispered again, suddenly feeling quite silly sitting there and talking to himself. He sat for a while longer, thinking about Draco some more before drifting off to wonder how well Jon, George and Harry were doing. He missed them all terribly. It wasn't much longer before the first tinges of pain and fatigue seeped into his body, so he stood and headed back to the cottage. 

He'd only gone a few yards up the hill when he realised that he'd seriously over-exerted himself. His headache increased exponentially, his limbs growing numb and heavy. He was barely a quarter of the way back to the cottage when he knew that he’d never make it the rest of the way on foot. 

Ron sat down in a heap by the side of the path, faint, winded, and unsure how much longer he’d be conscious. If he passed out, his glamour would fail, and if some Muggle found him, and took him to hospital…there’d be hell to pay. He also couldn’t take the chance that Draco would discover him on his way back from Strath. 

So despite the dangers of having it tracked and pinpointed, Ron decided to Apparate. He closed his eyes and struggled to focus his increasingly fuzzy mind on the cottage…his destination right by where the front door was, that small, worn patch of earth, next to the flat, oblong piece of grey shale…

He took a deep breath and Apparated, and knew no more.

 

~~~~~

 

“What in Merlin’s Balls are you doing out here?”

Ron groaned, but kept his eyes shut. “Nothing,” he replied. Draco struggled to lift him to his feet. “Just wanted some fresh air,” he added lamely, cracking open his eyes.

Draco was still wearing his glamour, and Filch-Snape glared at him. “Open a window next time,” he huffed. “You’re not well, you big, moronic git. How many times do I have to say it?”

Ron threw his arm about Draco’s shoulders. “A few hundred more times, I expect.” He grinned, but Draco would have none of it. 

“Idiot,” Draco muttered as he dropped the wards and kicked open the door. They stumbled across the threshold, barely making it to the bed, where Draco dropped Ron face first onto the mattress. “Can’t leave you alone for a second!”

Ron sighed as he rolled over, just in time to see Draco slam the door and drop his glamour. Draco stalked over to the table, pulling a handful of sacks from his jacket pocket and engorging them back to normal size. “How your Mum ever survived your upbringing with even a shred of sanity is beyond me. I’m beginning to think they awarded her the Order of Merlin simply for surviving the trauma of raising such a clutch of red headed miscreants!”

“You know, you’re really quite cute when upset,” Ron said.

“Enough cheek, I think,” Draco shot back. “Here, take your potion and sleep. Or else.” He tossed the phial to Ron, who caught it easily. 

“Yes, Doctor.” Ron popped the cork and hefted the phial, winking at Draco as he downed the liquid. “I think I’m actually getting used to this,” he said around his frown. 

Draco merely nodded and continued unpacking their provisions.

 

~~~~~

 

The pair fell into a comfortable rhythm, their days following a familiar pattern. Draco would prepare breakfast, they would listen to the Wizarding Wireless for a few hours, and then Ron would nap while Draco would either read or journey into Strath. They usually skipped lunch, as Ron almost always slept through it. 

Ron would then awake in early afternoon to find Draco milling about, preparing their evening tea. Draco had taken to bringing back the local Muggle newspaper every other day, and while it obviously held no news of their world, it was something new to read nonetheless. Somehow, Draco had also managed to procure three recent copies each of _Quagmire’s Quidditch Quarterly_ and _Quidditch Stars Unrobed!_ , which Ron devoured far too quickly. 

After tea, they again usually listened to the Wireless, and Ron eventually talked Draco into playing Wizard's Chess. At first, Ron would barely last half an hour after tea before needing to lie down; but as time wore on, he felt his strength returning slowly but steadily. 

That first night after he’d collapsed while on the way back to the cottage, Draco had made a big show of preparing his bedroll in the far corner of the room. Ron had watched with interest, but said nothing. It was Draco’s way of saving face, of proclaiming silently that he was going to handle things in his own manner, that he’d come to Ron in his own good time, thanks so very much. Ron didn’t have very long wait; he awoke the next morning to find Draco in the bed, back to him and perched precariously on the far side of the mattress. 

Draco opened up very slowly over the course of the next week, his willingness to reveal his darkest secrets in almost direct correlation to Ron’s increasing stamina and general return to health. Draco also gradually dropped the barriers that he’d erected between them, slowly becoming more and more affectionate and tactile as the days marched by. 

Ron finally remembered to ask about the ruins, and Draco turned out to be a veritable storehouse of information regarding the area. Seems the Malfoy family had maintained a small house in Lonemore, one of the villages of Gairloch, for many generations. Draco recalled spending a few summers of his youth on the beaches of Gair Loch before Lucius sold the property to Muggles when Draco was six. 

One of Draco’s distant ancestors was a MacKenzie, whose clan had held title to the surrounding lands including the fort of An Dun from 1494 until the middle of the eighteenth century. Prior to that, An Dun was controlled by the MacLeod clan, who took over the land when the Vikings departed the area in 1263. Draco wasn’t certain, but it was entirely likely that Jon could trace his lineage directly to the clan that ruled Gairloch for over two hundred years. 

As Ron regained his health, he and Draco took longer and longer walks, glamoured, of course, and weather permitting, venturing further and further into Gairloch, finally visiting each of the three villages. Ron’s favourite spot was An Dun, hands down, and he and Draco managed to catch at least one dazzling sunset from their vantage point on the ruined stone steps. It was on a Thursday evening in early May, near the end of their second week in Gairloch that Ron finally kissed Draco. Or perhaps it was the other way around...

Draco had risen from the steps to stretch just as the small, blazingly orange disc of the sun was sinking into the sea. Ron had approached him slowly, gently winding his arms about Draco’s waist and leaning his chin on Draco’s shoulder. Draco had actually pressed against him, placing his hands over Ron’s. Ron nuzzled Draco’s cheek, barely pressing his groin into Draco’s backside. They stayed that way until the sun disappeared, the sky a sizzling tapestry of bright oranges, reds, and purples. Draco had pulled away, and Ron thought that he was simply making ready to return to the cottage. Instead, Draco framed Ron’s face with both hands, pausing only the briefest of moments before he’d leaned up to press their lips together. Ron had pulled Draco in tightly, his large hands caressing and massaging Draco’s lower back. Draco broke away and smiled, gently taking Ron’s hand and leading him back to the cottage. 

Ron slept dreamlessly that night, for the first time in ages, with Draco spooned against him, the fingers of their right hands interlaced.

 

_**Friday, 5 May, 2000** _

 

“Ayuh, I’d say ya’ve made a remarkable recovery,” the mediwitch said as she moved her wand over Ron's chest. "Ambric levels are within ninety-five percent of normal, residual traces of dark energy, nominal." She winked at Ron as she sheathed her wand in her waistbelt. "Just one more thing," she murmured, placing the odd contraption hanging from her neck into each ear. She blew on the round silver disc connected to the earpieces by slender, black tubes, placing the disc on the center of Ron's chest.

"Shite!" Ron yelped. "That's bloody cold, that is!" 

"Careful there, Miss Heliotrope," Draco called out from across the room. "He may look like a sturdy, strapping bloke, but beneath that hulking exterior, lies a most fragile flower."

Ron stuck out his tongue, and Draco responded in kind. 

"That's Hortense to you laddie," she replied, carefully moving the disc about Ron's chest. "Take some deep breaths, hold for a count of two, and then release, yes? That's a good lad."

Ron complied while Draco moved up to stand behind him. Hortense listened intently while Ron breathed deeply in and out, completing a few sets before the mediwitch finally nodded and straightened up. She removed the device from her ears, and her auto quill immediately began scratching away in her tiny notebook. 

"So," Draco began brightly, "he'll need another two weeks of bed rest, right?"

Hortense arched an eyebrow all the way up into her silvery grey hairline. "Nice try, lad, but Mr. Weasley here is recovered enough for return to duty. Not quite one hundred percent, but well along." 

"Can't blame a bloke for trying," Draco offered sheepishly. He placed both hands on Ron's bare shoulders and leaned his head against Ron's.

Hortense chuckled and shook her head. "Now ya just keep yer panty hose on, Mr. Malfoy, at least until I've left the building." She opened her bag and made to place the odd device inside. 

Ron stayed her hand. "What is that thing? Old, isn't it?"

"What, this? Oh, yes, belonged to my da. Muggle doctor, and a damn good one, at that. Quite something to be a healer without the benefit of magic, ya know."

"But I thought your wand could tell you everything you need to know about a patient," Ron replied. "What do you need that for, then?"

Hortense harrumphed. "Ayuh, my wand is capable of a very thorough scan, but I still like to hear a healthy heart and lungs with my own ears, thanks very much. I've always believed in a hands on approach to medicine, truth be told." She stuffed the Muggle contraption into her bag, rooting about for a moment before extracting a roll of parchment. "I've been instructed to give this to ya had I found Mr. Weasley here to be fit and ready for duty." 

She thrust the parchment at Draco, who eyed it ominously. 

"Thank you, Hortense. For everything," Draco said absently. He took the parchment, broke the seal and began reading. 

"Yeah, thanks," Ron added, jumping off the table and hugging the stocky mediwitch firmly. 

"Oh, well, Merlin's Broomsticks!" Hortense stammered, her hands fluttering about and patting Ron animatedly. "Ya're quite welcome, lad, quite welcome indeed!" Ron released her, and she smoothed out some strands of hair that had come loose from the tight bun on the top of her head. She smiled widely as she threw her cloak about her shoulders. She picked up her bag and laid a hand on Ron's. "Be safe, now, both of ya, yes?" She winked and jerked her head toward the door. "Do an old lady a favour and drop the wards? Don't fancy Apparatin' in a downpour."

"Of course," Draco said. 

Hortense nodded. "Thanks much, lad. Be careful out there!" She held her bag to her waist with one hand while she held up the index finger of her other hand, scribing what looked like the letter zed in the air; she Disapparated to a series of clangs and a lurid yellow puff of smoke.

Ron waved his hand in a attempt to clear away the haze. “What in hell was that all about?” he wheezed. He turned to look at Draco, who was staring at the parchment. “Oy, you okay? What is it?”

“What was that, Ron?” 

Ron walked around the table and threw his arm about Draco’s shoulders. “Well, first I asked what was up with Hortense.” He gestured to the slowly dissipating cloud of smoke.

“Oh, well, just an old way of Apparating,” Draco answered. “For a while it was in vogue to have your own arrival and departure alert, as well as a distinct visual signature. Old school stuff.”

“Interesting,” Ron observed, banishing Hortense’ smoke with a wave of his hand. “And what’s the good news?” He tapped the parchment.

“Deployment Orders,” Draco murmured, dropping the paper to the table. “We’re to report to Northern Command Headquarters in Inverness tomorrow morning at oh-nine-hundred for re-assignment.”

Ron turned Draco to face him. “We’ve always known that we’d be leaving here. Can’t stay in this haven forever, yeah?” He lifted Draco’s chin. “Still work to do, and time we got back to it. I do feel a bit guilty having been here so long while the rest of our mates are out there.”

Draco nodded and buried his head against Ron’s chest, the fingers of one hand slowly playing across the surface of one of Ron’s ginger-furred pectorals. “I know, I know, and a week ago I’d have been glad to go and never give this place another thought. But now…”

Ron kissed the top of Draco’s head. “But now, _what?_ ”

“But now I don’t want to leave,” Draco replied. “I’ve never felt so safe, so secure as I’ve felt being here with you. This is our haven, our safe harbour from the storm. Gods, Ron, I can’t bear the thought of what will happen once we leave here.” He lifted his head and kissed Ron roughly, his tongue pushing hungrily into Ron’s mouth.

Ron embraced Draco firmly for a moment before breaking their kiss. He sighed heavily, cradling Draco’s head with both hands. “Wherever we go, whatever happens, we’ll always have this, and it’ll be ours and ours alone. No one, nothing, can ever take this away from us, yeah?” He snuffled, releasing Draco to wipe at his nose. “Now you’ve gone and gotten me all worked up.”

Draco chuckled and sniffled himself, wiping at his eyes. “What a poncy couple of poofs we are, eh?”

“Guilty,” Ron agreed. “Wouldn’t want to be any other way.” He squeezed Draco’s shoulder. “I can’t begin to thank you enough for all you’ve done. I wouldn’t be standing here if it weren’t for you. You saved me, in every way a body could be.”

Draco nodded, staring at the floor. “And you saved _me_ , Ron. No one’s ever bothered to try to understand me before. To try to…to help me. You’re the only one…” He walked away to the bed and began shoving random items into his rucksack. “But now that’s all over, finished, done. We‘re leaving, and that‘s that.”

Ron moved behind Draco and gently pulled the rucksack out of Draco’s hands. “Now hold on a minute,” he said firmly. “Yeah, we’re leaving Gairloch, but we’re going together. Both of us. You and me. Nothing’s finished, Draco, not as far as I’m concerned. A beginning, more like. At least that‘s what I thought.”

Draco whirled about and sat down heavily on the bed. “Damn you, Ron. You just don’t play by the rules, do you?”

Ron threw up his hands. “What in bloody hell are you going on about now?”

Draco shook his head. “You, Merlin be damned! It’s not supposed to go this way. You’re not supposed to be so fucking understanding and supportive and wonderful and sodding gorgeous and funny…” He thumped the mattress with both fists. “I don’t know if I can do this, Ron! I don’t know how! No one’s ever…I’ve never…”

Ron knelt down, grasping one of Draco’s fists and squeezing it firmly. “I’m going to ask you a question, and I need you to answer it truthfully, okay?”

Draco struggled to maintain his composure. He met Ron’s gaze and nodded. “Go ahead. Shoot.”

Ron took a deep breath. “Do you trust me, Draco? Implicitly?”

Draco blinked. “What?”

“I said, do you trust me?”

Draco rolled his eyes. “Of course I do. What kind of silly question is that?”

Ron grinned. “So you do, then.”

Draco held up his hands. “Yes, Ron, I trust you.”

“Good. So you’ll believe me when I tell you something, then.”

“Of course,” Draco responded, his tone tinged with annoyance. 

Ron placed his hands on Draco’s knees. “I’m not leaving you, Draco. I’m not going anywhere that you can’t follow. If they try to split us up when we get to Inverness, then I’ll resign my commission. Simple as that.”

“But you can’t do that.”

Ron shrugged. “I most certainly can. Last time I checked, this was still a volunteer Service. And I’ve done my bit, for over two years. I’ve got the scars to prove it.”

“But you just said you couldn’t wait to get back into the thick of things,” Draco said. “You wouldn’t feel guilty ducking out of the Service so abruptly?”

“There are many ways to serve,” Ron answered, shrugging and smiling.

Draco nodded, gazing at Ron and tracing a finger across the Inferi scar. “You’re right, as usual. You’ve done a brilliant job. Not a soul would begrudge your choice to resign. You very nearly died, after all. I’m seeing another Order of Merlin for the Weasley clan.”

Ron chuckled. “Probably. But _you_ saved _me_ , and you’ve also done amazing things in service of The Order. I think I’m seeing the first Order of Merlin for the Malfoys.”

“I wouldn’t count on that,” Draco replied. “Besides, I was horrible at Divination, so my predictions are highly suspect.”

“That makes two of us, then.”

They were both silent for many moments, the only sound being the low crackling of the fire in the hearth.

“Rain’s stopped,” Ron observed. 

“For a few minutes,” Draco added. “Are you sure, Ron? Truly?”

Ron grinned wickedly. “What, about the rain?” 

“Arsehole,” Draco spat. “Don’t toy with me right now. You know what I meant.”

“Yeah, I know. And yeah, I’m sure.”

Draco shook his head and flopped back onto the mattress.

“Do I have to say it?” Ron prodded, scooting between Draco’s spread legs and leaning over him.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake, might as well go for the full monty. Let ‘er rip.”

Ron sniggered out loud. “Shite, Draco, you’re something else!”

“Just say it,” Draco growled.

“As you wish,” Ron replied, working his way onto the bed and on top of Draco. “I love you.”

Draco stared for a moment before taking a deep breath. “Wow.”

“Didn’t hurt, now did it?”

Draco shook his head. “Not at all. As a matter of fact…”

“I love you, _Draco_ ,” Ron rumbled.

“Thanks.”

“No problem.”

“Oh, and Ron?”

“Yeah?” 

“Me too.”

“Brilliant!”

“Exactly.” Draco reached up and crashed their lips together, both hands firmly grasping Ron’s broad shoulders. He nibbled and nipped at Ron’s lower lip, pulling Ron down on top of him. 

Ron groaned into Draco’s mouth, his erection straining against the tight fabric of his denims. He could feel Draco’s own hardness brushing against his, the layers of fabric separating them suddenly far too much of a hindrance. He pulled away and stood up, leaving Draco panting on the bed. He yanked at the buttons of his fly, not caring that one of them popped off and clinked across the floor.

“Gods, you’re so bloody beautiful,” Draco murmured as he sat up and helped Ron to push his jeans down. While he struggled to completely remove his denims, Draco made short work of shoving down Ron’s boxers. Ron’s thick cock bobbed heavily, and Draco grasped it with both hands, eagerly swirling his tongue about the wide, purple head. 

Ron gasped and nearly fell over, steadying himself on Draco’s shoulder. Draco took as much of his length as was possible, wrapping both hands about his muscular, furry arse. Draco sucked his cock with relish as Ron slowly began moving his hips back and forth. Draco held on tightly, massaging his arse cheeks firmly and raking his teeth along the underside of Ron’s prick on each upstroke. 

Ron panted as Draco continued to tease him, one of Draco’s hands now cupping and fondling his sacs. “Fuck, Draco, gonna come!”

Draco immediately released Ron’s cock and stood up. “Not yet,” he breathed, his swollen pink lips curved into a wicked smile. “You’re going to fuck me,” he insisted, yanking his jumper over his head and tossing it away. 

Ron kicked off his boxers and flopped onto the bed as Draco finished removing his trousers and y-fronts. Draco climbed onto the mattress, throwing a leg over his hips and straddling him, Draco’s arse hovering above his groin. 

“Fuck me,” Draco repeated, “Make me yours.” With that, he dropped on top of Ron and began suckling at the Inferi scar. 

“Shite!” Ron yelped, Draco’s tongue teasing the sensitive, puckered flesh. 

Draco lifted his head, smiling broadly. 

Ron growled and flipped them over, descending on one of Draco’s nipples and taking it between his teeth.

Draco moaned as Ron nibbled at the nub of flesh firmly, quickly releasing it to lick and lave his way down the centre of Draco’s chest. He made his way down Draco’s abdomen, flicking his tongue in and out all the while, stopping occasionally to nip or nibble at Draco’s silky, pale skin. 

“Want you,” Draco panted, his hands carding through Ron’s ginger hair. “Want you so much.”

Ron took Draco’s cock into his mouth, languorously swirling his tongue about it in an intricate dance. Draco bucked his hips and arched his back as Ron withdrew, Draco’s erection flopping against his belly with a loud slap. Ron hefted Draco’s legs up and over his shoulders, whispering the _Lubricus_ charm. 

He pressed one finger against the tight ring of muscle guarding Draco’s entrance. Draco gasped and pushed against Ron’s finger; Ron paused barely a second before plunging his digit into Draco, then quickly adding another, twisting and scissoring them about. 

“Hurry,” Draco moaned, “Make me yours, Ron, want to be yours!”

Ron continued preparing Draco for a few moments longer before withdrawing his fingers and casting a second _Lubricus_ on himself. He shifted about, pulling Draco closer. He pressed the head of his cock to Draco’s entrance, pausing briefly before breaching his lover. Draco howled, his arse clenching involuntarily, but relaxing almost instantly. 

“Do it!” Draco gasped.

Ron nodded, placing both hands on Draco’s narrow hips and slowly but steadily pressing his length inside, until he was almost completely sheathed by Draco. 

_“Godssobloodytight,”_ he rumbled, holding the position just long enough to give Draco time to catch his breath. A moment later, Ron began to pull out, pausing just at the right moment and pressing inside again. He quickly increased the speed of his strokes, Draco’s cries having become quite unintelligible.

Ron knew he wouldn’t last much longer, so he grabbed Draco’s neglected cock with one hand and began stroking his partner as best he could. Draco pushed his hand away, attending to his own erection. Ron concentrated on the rhythm of his strokes, the feeling of Draco’s tight arse about his cock too wonderful for words. He felt his orgasm building within him, a roiling, all-encompassing heat. Draco bucked and writhed, his eyes squeezed shut and sweat glistening all over his body. 

“Fuck!” Ron yelled, his orgasm rolling out of him in a wave of ecstasy. He ceased his thrusts, grasping Draco’s hips for dear life, not ever wanting to feel any differently, to be anywhere else, with anyone else. Draco was his haven, his sanctuary. The wave of pleasure rolled through and past him, and he relaxed, his spent prick still sheathed in his lover. He made to slowly withdraw, but Draco’s cry stopped him.

“No, not yet,” Draco said, and thrust his hips against Ron. He managed one more shove before he too came, his ejaculate shooting across his belly and chest. 

Ron pulled himself out and flopped down, his head on Draco’s chest. He murmured a cleansing charm on them both, and fumbled for the quilt, pulling it up and over them. 

Draco kissed the top of his head, wrapping his arms about Ron and holding him tightly. “Extraordinary,” he whispered.

“Yeah,” Ron agreed.

 

~~~~~~

 

Ron watched the sunset, Draco sitting between his legs and snuggling against his chest. The skies were still mostly cloudy, but had broken just enough to permit a rather spectacular show as the sun slipped beneath the waves. After the cozy warmth of the cottage, it was down right chilly so close to the loch. The wind gusted across the ruins of An Dun, and Ron cast another warming charm as they huddled closely together on their favourite step.

“Beautiful,” Draco commented, unable to hide the slight chatter of his teeth. 

“We can go back if you want,” Ron replied, nuzzling against the side of Draco’s hoodie. 

“We’re here. You wanted to see the sunset once more. We might not get the chance to be here again.”

“You never know.”

Draco craned his neck to look up at Ron. “Were you serious about quitting the Service if they separate us?”

“Completely. Would you do the same?”

“Absolutely.”

“There you go then,” Ron replied. “We might be right back here tomorrow, looking up an estate agent.”

“Maybe,” Draco said softly. “The War won’t be over by then. No escaping that.”

“Too right,” Ron agreed. “It’ll be over though, perhaps sooner than we think. But I’m not willing to wait. We only get one go round, and this is ours. I intend to make the most of it.”

Draco remained silent for many moments. He fidgeted slightly, shifting against Ron’s thighs. 

“What?” Ron asked.

“Nothing,” Draco answered. 

“C’mon,” Ron prodded.

“Well, it’s just that this bloody stone is so damned cold.”

“Draco,” Ron sighed, shaking his head. “Let’s go back then.”

“No, no, I’m fine, really. Not sure if I’ll ever feel my arse again, but that’s a small price to pay to experience such sublime beauty.”

“Arse,” Ron muttered.

“Nope, still can’t feel it,” Draco shot back. 

Ron chuckled, shivering slightly as the sun prepared to disappear from view. Far out in the water, he could barely make out a tiny speck moving in toward the harbour. “Look there,” he said, pointing. “How’d you like to be out on a boat in weather like this?”

“No thank you,” Draco replied. “Some Muggles are absolutely insane. I‘d be surprised if they even make it to the dock.”

Ron smiled and held Draco tighter. “They’ll make it,” he said, lacing his fingers with Draco’s. “I know they will.”

 

**_~~ fin ~~_ **


End file.
